


Liquid Courage

by purewanderlust



Series: Love, Curiosity, Freckles, and Doubt [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has his first experience with whiskey. It goes about as well as one would expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liquid Courage

Dean gets his little brother drunk for the first time on Sam's sixteenth birthday.

"Technically, this booze was legally aquired," he tells Sam, waving the bottle of whiskey in his face, "I paid with cash, even if the license was a fake."

"That's not real logic, Dean." Sam says, but his argument is half-hearted. He already knows how this is going to end. "Won't Dad freak if he finds out?"

Dean shrugs. "I was younger than you when Dad gave me whiskey for the first time," he points out, " 'Sides, who says he's ever gonna find out?"

Sam thinks about pointing out that the first time Dean had had whiskey had been to dull the pain while Dad stitched up the gashes his brother had received at the hands of a malicious banshee, but he doesn't really want to ruin Dean's good mood. "Oh, fine, then!" he says, with a little more huffiness than is strictly necessary, flinging himself down on the sofa. "But if Dad finds out, you're taking the fall."

"Any time, Sammy." Dean agrees easily, plopping down next to him and screwing the lid off the bottle. He fills the two cups about halfway and then sits the whiskey bottle down on the coffee table. "It'll burn," he warns, throwing his drink back with practiced ease, "But it's a good burn."

Sam follows Dean's lead, just like in every other aspect of his life, and gasps as the whiskey hits the back of his throat. He sputters for a few moments, eyes watering, and Dean pounds on his back.

"Told you it'd burn." he says with a razor-sharp grin. Sam wants to scowl, but he can already feel the alcohol working it's way into his system and he finds himself throwing his brother a sloppy smile instead.

"Lemme try again."

Dean quirks an eyebrow at him. "Think you can do it without choking this time, wuss?"

Sam snatches the bottle out of his hands and pours another shot. "That's not fair, I wasn't prepared."

The second shot goes down a lot more smoothly than the first and Dean matches him and then pours them both a third. He's barely pulled the bottle away from the flimsy paper bathroom cups when Sam picks his up and throws it back almost as neatly as Dean had been doing.

"Not too bad, Sammy." Dean says approvingly, "How're you feeling?"

"'m feelin' pretty good." Sam answers honestly. The whole world feels like it's gone a little softer at the edges and he's plesantly warm from head to toe. "Another?"

Dean hesitates, "You're gonna have a helluva hangover if you aren't careful, Sammy."

"S'all part of the experience, right? C'mon, Dean, please?" He fixes his brother with the full weight of his best puppy dog look and the older Winchester crumples like a house of cards in a hurricane, pouring them both another shot.

Sam has a vague memory of Dean saying "This is the last one" but that seems like it was forever ago, and they've both had at least three more since. Maybe five. Dean is sprawled out across the couch, looking practically sinful, watching Sam with heavy-lidded eyes.

He's got the whiskey bottle dangling loosely in his right hand, hanging down over the edge of the couch, and Sam wants another shot, so it only seems natural to drape himself over his brother and tug the bottle out of his hands, bringing it straight to his lips, not even bothering with a cup.

Except that being in such close proximity to Dean reminds him why he hadn't wanted to get drunk with his brother in the first place. His brother smells like Old Spice and whiskey and leather, with a touch of gunpower and suddenly Sam can't bring himself to move out of his space, one hand pressed flat over his brother's heart. Dean isn't helping things, going slightly tense under Sam's weight, hands flying to his hips in automatic reaction.

"Whatcha doing, Sammy?" he asks a little cautiously. Sam studies his face, trying to figure out what his brother's expression means.

Instead, he opens his mouth and says " _God_ , does anyone ever tell you that they love your freckles?"

He feels like he should probably feel mortified when Dean's eyebrows shoot upward in response, but he's too busy staring at the cluster of freckles dusting the bridge of his brother's nose. Again, he's struck with the desire to lean forward and taste them, but alcohol and years of adjustment to these kind of thoughts make it a lot less terrifying than it was at twelve. There's a reason they don't do this, Sam knows, if he could only remember what it was.

"Sammy." Dean's talking again, so he forces himself to pay attention, "Not that I don't appreciate your drunken compliments but--" He stops abruptly as Sam skims a finger lightly across the bridge of his nose, breath going ragged and uneven.

"Do any of your hookups ever get to taste them?" Sam whispers, feeling dangerously unsteady. He runs the pad of his thumb lightly over a trail of freckles high on Dean's cheekbone and his brother's eyelashes flutter, brushing his fingertips.

"Sam. Sam. What are you doing?" when Dean speaks again, he sounds breathless, like he does after morning sprints, and his eyes are wide, and brighter than usual. He looks uncertain, like he's waiting for Sam to cue him, to tell him what he's supposed to do next, but Sam's not entirely sure what's he's doing right now, let alone what to say to Dean.

The moment is broken by the sound of a key in the lock. It's like the noise is a trigger, because Dean's hands, which had been loose on his waist, suddenly tighten and shove him off, and Dean slides out from under him, to the other end of the couch, looking for all the world like a wild animal that's been cornered.

"What--?" Sam has just enough time to say before the door swings inward and John Winchester steps over the salt line.

Dean's on his feet in an instant, crossing to John and taking his duffle bag. "Did you get it, Dad?"

John throws his son a weary smile and claps him on the back. "I got it." he frowns slightly, "What are you two still doing up?"

Dean tenses a little and Sam decides to step in and help. "Dean gave me whiskey!"

"Dean." John growls, glancing between his two boys, "Is this true?"

Sam isn't sure why he's asking. It's pretty obvious from the way he's been swaying on the arm of the couch that he isn't entirely sober. Oh God, had he tried to _seduce_ Dean? The realization hits him like a bucket of ice water. 

"Oh no." he manages, lurching to his feet, "I'm gonna..." He doesn't get any further than that, because suddenly Dean is at his side again, a firm hand on the back of his neck and another around his waist, half-carrying him to the bathroom and shoving him to his knees in front of the toilet.

It's just in time, too, and Sam tilts forward and violently empties the contents of his stomach into the bowl. He shudders and gags, trying to ignore the waves of nausea in favor of the warm weight of Dean's hand rubbing circles on his back.

John and Dean are murmuring, low in the background, but Sam can't focus on what they're saying. He only really notices when Dean's hand disappears from his back momentarily, but then his brother is back with painkillers and a glass of water and Sam doesn't think he's ever loved him more.

"--it's better that he was with you, I suppose," he hears John grumble begrudgingly, "But maybe next time keep to beer, Dean?"

"Yes, sir." Dean answers in typical fashion, then, in a softer voice, "Switch off that light, will you?"

The bathroom goes immediately dark and Sam makes a noise that he hopes expresses his apprecition before another wave of nausea overtakes him. Dean's fingers scrub gently through his hair and brush his bangs out of his face. The toilet flushes and then the glass is being pressed into his hands again.

"Finish your water, Sammy." Dean instructs, so Sam complies, already feeling drowsy and exhausted from being sick.

He wakes up the next morning on the bathroom floor, with his head in Dean's lap and his brother's fingers still tangled in his hair and decides that it's probaby worth the pounding headache.


End file.
